


Jazz Baby/My Little Suffragette

by 912luvjaxlean, PhryneFicathon



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Friendship, post-war era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 20:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17270840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/912luvjaxlean/pseuds/912luvjaxlean, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon
Summary: Elizabeth MacMillan and Phryne Fisher find forever friendship after the war.





	Jazz Baby/My Little Suffragette

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QuailiTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuailiTea/gifts).



> Prompt: How Mac and Phryne met.
> 
> "Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards."  
>  \- Soren Kierkegaard

Some might say that dark of night goes on forever. Some might say that it is always darkest before the dawn. Some might say that sorrow is dissipated by pleasure, by friendship, laughter and song.

Some returned from the shell-shocked poppy fields of The Great War and picked up the fragmented pieces of their former lives. Some remained behind, forever young; frozen in time, they smiled goodbye in final formal photographs. Some were missing, some were maimed, some were mourned. What war hadn’t chewed up and swallowed, The Spanish Flu epidemic devoured. 

Some believed that this war would end all wars, when Peace was proclaimed. Some believed that women were fully emancipated, when suffrage was granted. Some believed that working women should return to their places at home, ‘manpower’ needed those jobs. Some believed that not taking things seriously ever again, would cauterize sorrow.

Some believed in nothing. Some believed in everything. Some believed in themselves. Some believed alone was best. Some craved connection. Some hungered for the end of isolation, the quarantine sign removed from the soul. Some sought true liberation, freedom from rules and society’s norms.

Over a year ago, The Armistice was signed, maps were made with new lines. Over a year ago, suffrage was granted to all men and some women. Now, Influenza’s fire had been tamped down. Now, the calendar said that it was December 21, 1919. The Solstice, the beginning of Winter’s reign -- a time of change, a time of revels, and unexpected renaissance. 

For a time, it had felt wintery in Dr. Elizabeth ‘Mac’ MacMillan’s life. Now, she wanted to forget freeze and gloom. She wanted the warmth of life, love, and laughter to thaw the ice crystals that had formed in her heart. She wanted to move forward and forget the past.

She wanted to forget that her lover, Deidre, wrote her a ‘Dear Joan’ letter to tell her that she preferred men – after all. She wanted to forget the that the residency she qualified for at the London Hospital had been awarded to a man. He had served bravely as a military doctor in the war; she had served bravely as a volunteer doctor in the war. The Captain had the correct genitalia and the job. She wanted to forget the supreme irony of women proving themselves during the war, thus winning the vote, and then being ignored.

She wanted to forget the uniform she’d worn as a doctor volunteer in the Scottish Women’s Hospital service. Long sleeved blouse buttoned up tight, the stiff regulation undergarments and petticoats, the long skirt, cumbersome, heavy, and impractical. She’d always felt like she was in drag when she wore a skirt. She would have welcomed a soldierly uniform to serve in.

She wanted to dress in men’s clothing all the time. Three-piece men’s suits, tailored to taper in at the waist, colorful silk cravats, men’s wingtips on her feet, and a fedora set at a jaunty angle on her head. And, no ruddy corset constricting her ever again! When she went out at night, she wore a long coat over the suit. And, had a ready excuse, if ever questioned – ‘I’m on my way to a costume party, Constable. I’m masquerading as a man’.

She wanted to escape the rain, the fog, the coal fired murk of London. She craved sunshine and new endeavors. She had submitted her curriculum vitae for a Fellowship in Gynecology and Obstetrics in the Antipodes. She had cousins in Melbourne and they encouraged her to emigrate. The petite, red-haired woman in the glen plaid grey suit wanted to bury the past and begin the future. And, The Tribas Club was a perfect place to start.

It was a private club. No sign on the purple door. The ‘Membership Committee’, a tall, broad shouldered woman called ‘Candy’, consulted the list of nicknames and pseudonyms, before you were admitted. Dr. MacMillan used the name ‘Mac’ and had been a member for some time. The club honored her volunteer service in the war by offering her a lifetime membership. It was more than she had received in the heterosexual world. 

It was a sizable room in a cellar setting. The smoky haze of gaspers and cigarillos curled up to the low ceiling. There was a horseshoe shaped bar and banquette seating in purple leather. In the back, private alcoves were screened by black and silver curtains. Female couples danced on a small dance floor. After leaving her overcoat and fedora with the coat check girl, Mac went to the bar and ordered a single malt whisky. She had a good view of the tiny triangle stage up front. The trio playing on it ended the dance number and women wandered back to their seats. There was a brief intermission.

Then, the piano player said, “And, now, Phanette.” There was applause as a woman entered from the wings. She stepped on stage and faced the audience. She was very attractive. Her dark hair was cut in a ‘Castle bob’. She had kissable red lips. Youth smiled upon her.

Her long earrings swayed to the music as she caught the rhythm. She wore a clever costume. The dress was a purple sleeveless tunic that stopped just above her knees. Underneath there were sheer white trousers that hinted at the shapeliness of her legs. She used a long length of sequined green cloth as a boa. It caught the light and sparked with fireworks of color that glittered and glistened. She used it to accent a phrase, to flirt, to hug herself. As the boa caressed and cuddled Phanette, Mac felt an unreasonable jealousy.

She had a pleasant alto voice and knew how to sell a song. Mac could see that the singer enjoyed being the center of attention. She was having a good time up there. Mac stood at the end of the bar and admired her. She was attracted by her Frenchness, the symbolism of the costume colors, the girlish and mannish quality of its design. Phanette had a sassy silk and satin sex appeal. 

She finished her set with the song ‘Jazz Baby’. Inviting people to come to the dance floor to help her celebrate her birthday. When she stepped off the stage, the trio kept playing and Phanette moved through the crowd. She wove her way through the close packed dance floor and through the tables, stopping here and there to say something or to receive a quick kiss.

She squeezed through the standing drinkers and reached the bar. A dandyish little ginger woman in a tailored men’s suit moved close to her and said, “Buy you a drink?”

“Mine are on the house. Why don’t I buy you one?”

“I won’t say no,” the woman said with a hint of a Scots accent.

“Glenfiddich, please, and you’ll have?”

“The same.”

After the whiskies were poured, they clinked glasses. “Cheers,” said Phanette.

“Cheers,” responded Mac. “And, many happy returns of the day.”

“Thank you.”

“So now, come here often?”

“Sometimes. I know quite a few of the members. They wanted to give me a party.”

“So then, you don’t have time for a little get to know you -- behind a curtain?” Mac asked.

“I do actually. May I have my Glenfiddich?” Phanette asked the bartender. “Fortifications,” she said as she took possession of the bottle and moved off. “Follow me.” 

The singer chose an alcove, rapped on the door frame, peeked behind the curtain, found it was unoccupied and entered. Mac followed. They sat down on a padded bench seat that was against the wall. Phanette placed the ‘fortifications’ on top of a small triangular table. Then, they sipped their whisky and looked at each other over their glasses.

“I thought you were French,” Mac said.

“Only my lingerie.”

Mac smiled. “Sounds interesting.”

“Anything that doesn’t have to do with the bloody war is interesting.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Mac took a swallow and enjoyed it all the way down. “Would you like a cigarette?” She offered the singer one from her case and lit it for her. The both took deep drags and then exhaled.

“I’ve seen you here before,” Phanette said.

“You have?”

“Yes. And, I wasn’t sure, if I should speak to you.”

“Why ever not?” 

“We’ve met before, during a difficult time,” the singer explained.

“Did we, then?” Mac studied her. Something about her distinctive blue-green eye color. Something that was familiar and yet foreign. Something reminiscent of a girl she once met?

“We did. I’ll give you a hint. Rock, fire, toffee?”

“Dear Christ, you’re that little militant I treated!”

“I am.”

“You cleaned up quite well,” Mac observed with approval.

“Thank you. I’ve never forgotten your compassion for me, Doctor, when I was arrested and went on my hunger strike.”

“Pet, you were as tough as they came, but what were you, all of fourteen?”

“Something like that.”

“Crowing about breaking that window at Selfridges, setting that tip fire, and proclaiming you would not eat a thing until women were given the right to vote. You had bottom, I’ll give you that.”

“And now, some of us may vote,” Phanette said.

“As long as we are over thirty, have property or husbands…with property. Bloody hell!”

“Sod it! I am not taking anything seriously ever again. Altruism has given way to self-indulgence. I have joined the ranks of the Bright Young Things.” She proclaimed as she poured more whisky into their glasses.

“A toast!” cried Mac. “A wee dram to ward off the winter chill. Here’s to Sally. Bugger Bill!” 

Phanette replied, “Bottoms up and let’s be chums. Later, you might see my bum!”

“Skirl your pipes and beat your drums. The happiest days involve a come!”

“Sod the Germans. Bless the French. I lost my cherry in a trench!” Cried Phanette. She reached over and patted Mac on the back to ease her choking fit from the laughter.

A recovered Mac then said, “I wisnae pushed, I didnae shove. I just met you and fell in love.”

Phanette leaned over and kissed her new friend on the forehead, leaving the shape of her ruby lips on the other’s pale skin. Then, she grew serious. “You were very kind to me, you know. And, I’ve never forgotten that.”

“It had been three days without food. That was long enough for a girl to sacrifice herself for any damned cause!”

“You convinced me that our cause would be better served by my survival than by my death. You gave me that sweetie you just happened to have with you. And, so was a hunger strike ended by a toffee. I never really thanked you, Doctor.”

“You might as well call me Mac. Everyone else does.”

“Very well, Mac. And, you may call me Phryne. Though hardly anyone else does.” They toasted each other and finished their drinks. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight,” said Mac as she looked at her watch.

“My birthday is soon over. Would you like to dance?”

They left their private little bower, returned the bottle, and went out onto the dance floor. The trio was just starting a number. They turned to each other and then laughed. Both had tried to lead.

“Story of my life,” smirked Mac. 

“Perhaps we’re more suited to be friends?”

“Sounds like an intelligent idea.”

“How so?” Phryne asked.

“I won’t have to waste my time turning you into another ex-lover.”

“An intelligent woman has her uses, Mac. You may lead. Just this once.” 

Elizabeth MacMillan and Phryne Fisher partnered for the dance. They waltzed out the end of a birthday and the beginning of a friendship.

As Spring followed Winter, slow and close, the Past dissipated. Dwindling and dimming, it diminished. Fading and fading, it finally vanished. Wraithlike it faded away.


End file.
